


Crossing the Edges of Reality

by JodyNorman



Series: The Legacy [7]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JodyNorman/pseuds/JodyNorman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of a hostage situation, an act of courage costs Blair and Jim dearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing the Edges of Reality

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place a few months after the author's story "The Underside of the World" in Sensory Overload #3.
> 
> Originally published in the zine Sensory Overload #4

Jim's gaze shifted to the clock. 2 a.m. He sighed soundlessly and looked down at his partner, as still in the hospital bed as he'd been six hours earlier when they'd placed him there. No movement, no sound, no sign of life except the rise and fall of his chest. The stillness was so unlike the lively, enthusiastic Blair that Jim knew that the detective closed his eyes, images of the accident playing through his mind again.

Six o'clock in the evening, shadows long across the empty campus surrounding the building. The police cars parked in silent helter-skelter across the lot, officers crouched in hiding, all eyes scanning the many-sided compound.

"Who'n hell designed that thing?" growled Jim as he knelt behind a low wall, trying to focus his senses.

Blair shrugged. "I heard that a group of engineering students got the job. They wanted to be creative."

Jim glanced at him in split-second disbelief. "Chief, that thing's only creative in a nightmare."

Blair lifted his shoulders helplessly. "Hey, they got carried away." He studied the building and grimaced. "I've heard that it's a maze in there, too. Harvill's a lousy place to get a class."

"Great," said Jim sourly. "Just great."

"Can you see anything?"

Jim shook his head. "The sunlight on those windows reflects too much."

They both tensed as a young officer ahead of them made a dash for another piece of cover, throwing himself flat behind the metal recycling bins just as shots cracked, lead ricocheting off in all directions. Jim pushed Blair down and the two of them curled against the wall, trying to merge with the stones as the deadly missiles bounced.

An angry growl from Simon punctuated the end of the twanging silence that followed the young officer's move. "Kane," he said tensely, his voice ringing through the radios everyone wore, "you do something like that again and I will personally nail your hide to the wall when we get back to the station! Stay where you are, everyone. Let's see what this maniac does next before we move."

Jim sighed, staring at the floor the shooter was on through squinted eyes. He couldn't see a damned thing – the building was walled with glass and the setting sun in back of them shone right on it, making it impossible to focus past the glare. And his burning headache was growing worse every minute he had to spend looking at it.

"Hey, man, close your eyes," whispered Blair, staring up at him. "Just use your hearing. You know the path to use, you've been looking at it long enough. Just imagine that path as a channel you can direct, and your hearing as a stream of water – send it straight to that floor."

Jim hesitated, then placed a hand on Blair's back, focusing until he could feel the heartbeat pulse through his fingertips, then tilted his head back, looking through closed eyelids to where he knew the shooter was located, and visualized the path. And it worked!

He could hear the shooter talking, rambling on about how the university owed him, how this was payback, everyone would remember him, he'd get his own, and so on. Jim tuned the voice out, listening instead for other heartbeats. Yes, there they were. Damn. The man hadn't been kidding in his initial phone conversation to the police, saying he had hostages. Ten, no, twelve. Ten adults, from what he could hear, and from the whimpers and whispers, two children. Damn, damn, damn.

He withdrew, imagining the stream of water shrinking, retracing the channel, and gradually the sound of Blair's soft voice sounded in his ears, and he followed it, relaxing as he dipped his head and opened his eyes, meeting Blair's intent gaze as he blinked the world back into focus.

Only a few minutes had passed, and he took a deep breath, then explained what he'd heard. "I need to tell Simon about this," he ended with a frown, eyeing Blair and estimating the distance to Simon's position.

The guide glanced across the arena and shook his head. "You go, man. I'll just wait here, thanks."

Jim looked down at him, his eyebrows lowering, and Blair grinned. "Look, man, I'm not going out there to get ventilated without you, so don't worry about it. Go on, you need to talk with Simon, and you sure can't do it over the radio. I'll be safe right here."

Jim hesitated, then nodded. "But you stay here, Chief, understand me? Right here."

"Hey," said the anthropologist, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. "No problem. Now, go on!"

With a last reluctant look at his partner, Jim crawled off. He garnered only one shot from the shooter as he skillfully made his way from one hiding place to another, and had soon joined Simon behind the huge clump of bushes where the captain crouched.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim sighed, shifting position again in the soft chair that tempted him to fall asleep in it. Not that he could. He glanced down at Sandburg, then grimaced. No change, of course. If there were, he would've heard it even through the thickest wall, let alone in the same room. His gaze lingered on the bandages wrapping Blair's head, slid down to his finger, capped with the oxygen clamp, and then across to the monitor, its faint, steady beeping a reassuring echo to the heartbeat that drummed in his ears. At least his friend was alive.

He sighed, closing his eyes as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew that Blair had had every intention of staying behind that wall; he never would've moved if he hadn't thought a life was at stake. But why did he have to place his own at risk to save it? Why couldn't he just let the police do their job, and if someone got hurt in it, well, that was the risk attendant on it. It was, after all, a chance they all took on when they went through the Academy. But Blair hadn't, damn it.

A small humorless laugh escaped his lips, and Jim opened his eyes, staring down at Blair with resignation. But that kind of standoffishness, or selfishness, wasn't in Blair's nature, and the anthropologist simply couldn't stand by and see someone hurt, cop or not, and not do something about it. It was just who he was, and Jim knew he wouldn't have him any other way. But times like right now, when Blair paid the price for that generosity of spirit, and Jim had to sit by, helpless to aid him, were times straight out of hell.

Reluctantly, his memories took up where he'd left off and Simon's voice filled his ears as he digested Jim's report.

"Twelve, huh?" He shook his head, glancing back up at the building and then away, blinking in the glare. "Damn."

Jim nodded. "And Blair says it's a maze in there. That'll make it hard to find him."

Simon sighed. "S.W.A.T. teams are on their way. Maybe they can find someone who knows the layout of the building."

"On a Sunday?" Jim asked dubiously.

Simon sighed again, then stiffened. "That damn fool kid… What does he think he's doing?"

Jim turned to stare back at the young officer not far from Blair's position. Kane was wriggling his way across the grass toward another low wall. He obviously knew what he was doing from the way he moved, but, given the glances he shot skyward, he was working on a faulty assumption of the shooter's location, and in a few seconds he would be in a straight line of fire.

"Damn it!" Simon hissed, grabbing his radio. "Kane, get back. That's an order. Repeat, that's an order! Get back to your previous position!"

Kane glanced back in their direction and gave them an all-okay sign. Grinning confidently, he wriggled his way onward.

"Damn!" swore Simon. "I told them he shouldn't be assigned to detectives so soon after Academy. Never mind he had MP experience in the army, the boy has no street smarts yet!"

"Doesn't follow orders well, either," muttered Jim.

Simon threw him a sour look. "Yeah, well, maybe he's been watching you too much."

Jim shrugged. "That's different."

"Hrmm," growled Simon, looking back at the young man crawling toward his death. "Kane–" he tried again.

Jim lost Simon's words as his attention was abruptly sidetracked by Blair's whispered yell. Automatically aware of his partner's voice, the anthropologist's words were as clear to him as they were to the target.

"Hey!" Blair tried again when the young detective didn't look back. Glancing nervously up at the fifth floor, where he was almost sure he'd seen something flash, he leaned out of hiding just a little. "Kane! He's drawing a bead on you, man! Get back!"

Jack Kane waved a hand in his direction, the wordless gesture relegating Blair's words to the unimportant sidelines, where the anthropologist knew Kane thought he belonged.

"Jack!" Blair hissed, rare anger mounting in him. "Damn it, man, listen to me! You're looking at the third floor, but he's on the fifth, and you're aiming to be fried here if you don't get out of the way!"

Kane smirked back at him and wriggled one foot more. Blair didn't think, just acted. Rolling out of concealment, he threw himself forward, grabbing Jack's legs and yanking him backward. Several things happened almost simultaneously. Shots cracked dangerously close, Kane jerked free of Blair's grip, forcing the younger man to reel forward a pace, and Jim's frustrated yell echoed in Blair's ears just as black pain plowed its way across his head, stars exploding in its wake.

He felt himself falling, saw Jim racing toward him, heedless of the danger from above, saw the puff of dirt where Kane had been lying before he had grabbed him, and then the ground came up and hit him, hard.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Standing behind his fellow captain, Joel stared grimly at the young officer standing hangdog in front of his friend.

"And you just thought you knew better than all the seasoned officers behind you, is that it?"

Simon's snarl was almost vicious, and Joel could see him keeping a rigid control on his actions.

"You ignored orders, went on your own merry way, and because of you I have one man down and my best partnership out of commission!"

"He's just a civilian," Kane said weakly. "Shouldn't be out there anyway–"

Simon rounded the desk and grabbed the man, thrusting him against the closed door with a crashing thud that made everyone out in the squad room glance at the office, then away.

"You damned little pipsqueak! Blair's twice the man you are, and right now he's a hell of a better asset in the field than you, for all your army training! Whatever you think of his status, I'm the captain here and I call the shots. Blair's one-half of a damned good partnership, and that's something you obviously know nothing about!" He let the young man drop unceremoniously to the floor, turning away so quickly that Kane staggered for balance.

"I want your badge and your gun. You're on suspension until further notice."

Thoroughly cowed, the young officer bowed his head and dug out his ID with shaking hands. Removing his shield, he withdrew his gun from its holster and laid it on the desk with the badge.

Simon turned from his contemplation of the street from his window and looked coldly at the young man. "Now get out of my office and out of my building. And while you're at it, get out of my precinct, too. I don't want to see your face on my streets until Blair's back on his feet, and you damn well better pray he recovers, or what I'm doing to you is going to seem like a dinner party to what Jim will want to do."

Kane swallowed hard, his eyes down, and carefully backed out of the office, feeling the accusing stares of everyone in the squad room as he exited the doors to the hallway.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Back in the office, there was only a ringing silence as the two men watched the doors close after Jack. Simon finally snorted, dropping into his chair. "Good riddance."

When only silence greeted his announcement, he glanced at Joel, his eyebrows lifting. "You think I was too hard on him, don't you?" he charged, his voice hard.

Joel shook his head. "Nope. You were exactly right. But if you make anything more of it, then it'll be wrong." He met Simon's eyes straightly until the other man looked away, his shoulders finally starting to relax.

"I wanted to," Banks muttered, his eyes narrowing. "God, I wanted to."

Joel nodded, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know. Can't blame you. When I saw Blair go down…" He shook his head, shunting the memory away as quickly as possible.

"I know," Simon said quietly, taking a deep breath. "For a minute there, I thought…" He turned away from the image.

"But he's not dead," said Joel soberly.

"No, thank God," Simon replied sincerely. "But let's hope he doesn't sink to that. Comas are damned unpredictable things, and if he doesn't wake up… I don't know what I'm going to do with Jim."

"Hasn't Blair ever considered that?" Joel asked, frowning. "I mean, without him, Jim's up shit creek."

"Don't I know it," Simon replied fervently, glancing up at his friend. "Yeah, he discussed it with me once. But who can you ask to be a backup partner to a Sentinel? Takes a certain kind of commitment, you know?"

Joel shook his head with a resigned grimace. "Yeah, it would." He paused thoughtfully, considering. "Did you see him when Blair got shot?"

"Who? Jim? No, can't say that I did–" Simon cut himself off at Joel's head-shake. "Who?"

"Kane."

Simon blinked. "No, I didn't. What about him?"

"I was looking at him," Joel explained slowly, "and you know something, Simon? He was devastated."

Simon hiked an eyebrow at him. "You're kidding, right?"

Joel shook his head. "No, I'm not. He watched Jim with Blair with an expression I haven't ever seen. He tried to apologize, but I don't think Jim even heard him."

"Thank God for that. How 'n hell can you apologize for what he did!"

Joel shrugged. "You can't. But maybe that's something he's just realizing." He moved to the door, glanced back. "But at least it means that there's something there. He's got the potential to learn from this, if Blair makes it."

The door closed behind him and Simon swiveled his chair around to stare out the window again. _If Blair makes it…_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"That's all you can say?" Jim stared at the African-American woman in disbelief. "He's been in a coma for sixteen hours, and all you can say is that he's doing 'as well as can be expected?' When's he going to wake up? What can be done to help him?"

The older woman looked at him, not without sympathy. "Mr. Ellison, western medicine is good for many things, head traumas among them, but for all of that, sometimes our understanding and treatment of comas resembles that of our ancient predecessors. When it comes to the brain, Detective, we're still very much in the dark."

Jim turned away, pacing the small office to the window, where he stood still, staring across the city. The loft lay in that direction, but it was a place that had no draw to it. The spirit that made it a home rather than a dwelling place was absent, and Jim had no intention of spending any more time in the empty, echoing rooms than he had to. His place was here.

"What are you saying, Dr. Sowabea?" he asked without turning his head.

He heard her quiet intake of breath. "I mean, Detective, that Mr. Sandburg may wake up five minutes from now, or two days, two weeks, two months, or two years from now. There is simply no way to know."

Jim studied the tower opposite him for a long moment, then forced himself to turn. "What are his chances?" he asked steadily.

"He's strong and healthy," said the woman, her gaze even. "The graze from the bullet was luckily minor, and so is the bruise he received on the other side when he hit the ground. Frankly, if only one injury had occurred, he might not have dropped into a coma. His brain is showing no signs of swelling from the impact, which is good, and his Glasgow readings indicate that he is in a light coma, not a deep one. I'd say his chances are pretty good of waking fairly soon, within seventy-two hours, but I am forced to point out that once he passes the twenty-four hour mark, his chances decline progressively. If he doesn't wake within seventy-two hours, his prognosis will drop considerably."

"I see," was all that Jim could manage to force out of his tight throat.

She rounded the desk and touched him lightly on the arm. "Mr. Ellison," she said quietly, "I fully expect him to wake soon, perhaps very soon. Until then, stay with him. Read to him, talk to him, shout at him if you want. We know that people in a coma can often hear those around them. Let him know you're there for him, and that you expect him to come back." She hesitated, then continued. "There's no medical proof that such things work, but," she smiled at him, her eyes lighting with the expression until she was a truly beautiful woman, "I believe it works, and I've had former patients who agreed with me."

Jim took a breath, then nodded, unable to return the smile but appreciating it as he turned and left the office.

 _Okay, Blair_ , he thought determinedly as he wound his way through the corridors back to his partner's room, _you're going to get more talk from me than you ever wanted to hear. And you damn well better not ignore me this time_.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Are you still at it?"

Simon's startled comment interrupted Jim's reading, and the detective paused mid-word, glancing up at his friend as he stepped through the open door.

"Yes," Jim replied hoarsely, then closed the book on his finger and reached over to pick up a half-full glass of water from the table beside him. He drank thirstily, then set the glass down and looked back at Simon, who was bending to read the book's spine.

"Burton?" Simon asked blankly. "Wasn't he–? Wait a minute, I know the name–"

"Sir Richard Burton," Jim said, his voice still rusty. "The explorer, not the actor." The replay of Blair's words caught him, and his voice died.

"The explorer?" Simon questioned, not noticing his friend's distraction. "Why'd you pick him? I don't know what Sandburg reads, but I'd think something a little bit more to the, oh, science fiction type, you know?"

Jim shook his head. "Burton was the first anthropologist to mention Sentinels in his work. I thought it'd be something familiar."

"Uh huh," said Simon, resting a hand on Jim's shoulder. "Well, hey, I'll take a turn for a few minutes. Why don't you go take a leak, walk around the floor, grab yourself a snack?"

"No, thanks." Jim opened the book again and positioned himself again, but glanced up when Simon didn't move.

"Jim, take a rest." The captain paused just long enough for Jim to open his mouth to protest, then added, "That's an order, Ellison."

Jim closed his mouth, then swallowed and took a breath.

"Out," Simon ordered, jerking a finger at the door. "Fifteen minutes, minimum. Now."

Jim's shoulders sagged as he saw the look in his friend's eyes. He handed the book to Simon, carefully relinquishing the page, and stood.

Simon accepted the text with equal care, noticing the age of the pages as he ran a finger lightly across them. "Now get," he growled as he slid into the vacated seat.

Jim hesitated, then crossed to the door. He paused, a hand on the doorknob, then turned. "Simon," he said softly, "thanks."

Banks waved his free hand at him. "Go! Get outta here!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Kane carefully hid behind the sports section of the newspaper as Detective Ellison stepped out of the hospital room. Peeking over the pages, the young officer watched as the man walked slowly toward the men's room. His weariness was so evident that Kane winced. _My fault. All my fault_.

Everything was his fault. And the worst of it was, the damned civilian had been right. He had misjudged, and badly. And now, instead of winning the admiration and respect of the men he so wanted to emulate, he was the outcast in the department, the newby detective who shouldn't have been there in the first place.

He dropped his head back against the cushion, closing his eyes against the headache that never seemed to go away now. Damn it all. How could he have made such a mistake? So much for army training, MP experience, and one of the highest passing marks in the Academy in the last five years' classes. If it weren't for Blair…

_But he shouldn't be out there!_

_Well, if he hadn't been out there, I wouldn't be here, so I guess…_ his thoughts trailed off, Kane unable to face the end of the sentence. He gritted his teeth and finished it. _I guess he's not that bad_.

 _How generous of you to admit it_.

Kane cringed, then opened his eyes and brought his head down to glance up the hallway just in time to see Ellison exit the men's room. The detective paused, glancing toward the hospital room, then, looking at his watch, paced slowly down the hall toward the cafeteria.

Kane watched until he was out of sight, then dropped the newspaper and buried his face in his hands. _God, what have I done? What'll happen if Blair doesn't wake up? But he's gotta wake up, he has to. If he doesn't, I'm finished here and–_

He stumbled to a stop, the thought running head-on into his own selfishness.

 _And what about Blair?_ asked the voice in his head that never failed to make him flinch. _Or Ellison?_

 _What about me?!_ he cried soundlessly. _No one cares about me!_

 _Oh, you obviously do a first rate job of that all by yourself_.

The comment was sharp enough to make Jack's eyes sting, and he quickly turned back to the sports section, hunting frantically for something, anything, to escape his sharp-tongued inner voice.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _Thirty-six hours and counting_. Jim leaned tiredly against the window in Blair's room and looked across the city. Six floors up, it was quite a view, but he just couldn't find anything in him to appreciate it. He glanced over his shoulder at the bed and its so-still occupant.

"You would, though, wouldn't you, Chief?" he asked hoarsely. "So come on and wake up already and show me."

Sighing at the non-response to his half-plea, he turned back for one last glance across the city, noting the evening shadows that stretched long across the boulevards. Then, steeling himself, he returned to his seat, picking up the top book on the stack that sat next to Blair's bed.

He'd given up on Burton that morning, unable to stomach any more of the academic discourse and theoretical discussions. And every mention of Sentinels and their partners sent a twinge of pain through his soul. Finally, he'd carefully placed it aside and chosen a paperback that Simon had brought in, some science-fiction story. Actually, Jim found that he'd enjoyed the tale, at least as much as he could right now. But he'd finished that one half an hour ago.

He looked down at the one he held. Next in the stack, it was a novel he'd heard Blair mention he wanted when it hit paperback. Jim had planned to give it to him for a birthday present, but now his only thought was to interest his friend, keep him this side of that deep water he was skirting. Over the hours he had come to see himself in battle with that water, perceiving it as an ocean-sized whirlpool that might gently sweep his friend away. His voice was a tether holding Blair close, a lifejacket that he constantly threw, afraid that if he paused even momentarily that his partner would be lost, and if Blair vanished into that darkness, Jim knew it was only a matter of time before he himself followed, and a short time at that. Life without Blair was simply not worth living, and though part of that knowledge was based on Blair as partner to his Sentinel, what they had built went so far beyond that simple fact that words could not express it.

He shifted, looking down at his sleeping friend. "Well, Sandburg," he growled, "you said you wanted to read this, so wake up and listen to it, you hear?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _Forty-eight hours_ , thought Simon as he watched Jim pace to the window of Blair's room. _Forty-eight damned hours_. He looked down at the anthropologist from the chair he'd just forced Jim out of, and tried not to sigh.

"I know," Jim said without turning. "I do a lot of that, too."

Simon's shoulders sagged, and he did sigh then, wishing momentarily that Jim had never gone to Peru, that he'd never spent that week watching the Switchman's place, that his thrice-damned Sentinel abilities had never woken, and that his friend had never had to meet and care so deeply for the young man sleeping so soundly – too soundly! – in the hospital bed beside him.

"You can't wish that, Simon," said Jim quietly from beside him.

Simon jumped at the close presence, looking up at him in startlement. "What the hell? Are you reading minds now, too?"

Jim's lips curved, ever so faintly, then straightened. "No," he said shortly. "But I've found myself wondering sometimes if it wouldn't have been better for both of us if I'd never been a Sentinel, never met him, never–" He turned away, the sentence blunt, unfinished, but Simon heard the unspoken end of the phrase.

"What would his life have been like if I hadn't walked into it, Simon?" Jim asked without looking at Banks, pacing back to the window. "He'd never have been kidnapped by Lash, dropped in a runaway elevator, shot, drugged with Golden, almost killed by a psychic vampire–"

"What would've happened to you?" Simon said, cutting into the stream of images.

Jim spun, glaring at him. "Who cares about me?! The point is, Blair would be safe now if I hadn't barreled my way into his life!"

"As I recall the story," Simon countered quietly, paying no attention to his friend's heated tones, " _he_ barreled into _your_ life, not the other way around. He chose to come along for the ride; you didn't force him. In fact, the way I heard it, _you_ walked away from _him_ at that first meeting, and if it hadn't been for him, you'd probably be dead by now." He rose, walking over to face Jim. "I don't think that Blair would've wanted his safety at that price, Jim."

"Damn it!" whispered Jim, turning away. "Don't you see that that's the point of all this? If it weren't for me, he wouldn't be in that bed right now, and frankly, Simon, I don't know if I can take living with that if he doesn't wake up!"

The intensity of the low words forced Simon to glance away, and it took a moment before he could find the control to answer his friend. "I'm not really sure it would've made that much difference, Jim," he said after clearing his throat.

Jim glanced back at him, puzzlement breaking him out of the moment.

Simon went on. "Look, Jim, Blair was researching Sentinels when he met you, right? Now, even if he hadn't found you, what're the chances that he probably would've found a Sentinel somewhere?"

Jim blinked.

"And," Simon continued, pressing his advantage, "based on what you and Blair have told me about Sentinels, isn't it likely that most Sentinels end up in dangerous situations, whatever their occupation? I'd be willing to bet, in fact, that they usually end up in an occupation like the police, or the military, or something similar, just like you did. Assuming that they're law-abiding, anyway. And in that case, Blair would've ended up doing the same thing, just with someone else. Now, wouldn't you rather that it was you watching Blair's back and not some stranger out there?"

Watching Jim's stunned expression, Simon nodded at the door. "Now get. Fifteen minutes, minimum, remember?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Joel lifted his fork to his lips, barely tasting the mashed potatoes as he added a bite of cafeteria meatloaf. His attention was all for the Sentinel opposite him, picking listlessly at his dinner.

"Come on, Jim," Taggert chided, "eat. Simon'll have my hide if you don't, you know." Jim raised dull eyes and he shivered at the look.

"I'm not hungry," the Sentinel said, putting down his fork to drink his water.

Joel could find nothing in himself to argue with that, and silently put away a few more forkfuls of food, watching Jim covertly all the while.

 _What would it be like,_ he wondered, as he often did, _to have Jim's abilities?_ He looked out the nearby window, focusing on the garden that filled the inside patio of the hospital. Lush and green, touched here and there with patches of colorful flowers, it was beautiful and restful, but Joel looked it over thoughtfully, wondering what Jim saw. Could he hear the buzz of the bees that he could see hovering over the blooms, even inside the building, or smell the perfume of the blossoms? Could he see the stamens of the flowers over by the far wall, or the new leaves uncurling from the top of the trees? What was it like, to see, touch, taste, hear, feel around corners, past the limits?

And to share that knowledge as Blair did… What words were there to describe that? It seemed reasonable that a Sentinel would have to have someone to watch his back, to ground him. But to actually be that person, to know what your life meant to someone like Jim, and to be the one to whom Jim turned for answers, sometimes in moments of crisis…

Joel remembered watching Blair work with Jim a few times, since, once he himself knew about them, they didn't bother concealing themselves any more. One time in particular was vivid – Jim had needed an answer, right then, for something that was going on, and Blair had provided it, immediately and without hesitation. Joel had had the feeling, in that moment, that Blair was thinking on his feet, and wondered if that was how it always happened, and if so, how did the anthropologist always manage to get the right answer?

Now, glancing at Jim's bleak expression and remembering his talk with Simon earlier about the detective's growing depression, he decided that perhaps Jim needed to remember those times together, too. Sixty hours into the vigil, perhaps it was time.

"Jim," he said cautiously, "you ever consider that maybe Blair's supposed to be doin' this?"

Jim gave him an impatient look. "What's your point, Joel?"

 _Well, so much for the tactful approach_ , Taggert sighed to himself.

"I just mean that maybe Sandburg's bein' with you means more than an anthropologist paired with a police officer, since he's so good at it."

Ellison turned away, but not before Joel saw the eyes shutter themselves. The look was one he remembered from the months before Blair had vaulted into the Sentinel's life.

"I mean," Taggert said hurriedly, "after all, Jim, he's damned successful bein' what he is with you. And no training to help him, either. He's not a cop."

The detective exhaled, not looking at him. "Make your point."

Joel laid down his fork and looked at the officer. "My point," he said deliberately, "is that I think you've forgotten those early days." He bore Jim's angry glance without flinching. "I mean, think about it, Jim. How did he find you?"

Ellison bent his head, scraping the food around on his plate. "Saw my records."

"He saw your records," Joel repeated. "How?"

"A girlfriend faxed them to him."

"A girlfriend who just happened to work at the hospital you just happened to go to, who was on-shift when you just happened to be there, and who wasn't mad at Sandburg at the time." He looked at the detective. "Now, just how likely is all that to have happened?"

Jim was silent, stacking his mashed potatoes into a symmetrical cone-shaped heap.

"And you just happened to choose the university hospital rather than Cascade General. And Blair just happened to be in his office to receive and read this fax and come running over there."

"All right!" snarled Jim, the dam breaking as he flattened the potato heap into a pancake with a forceful thrust of the fork. "So the chances of us meeting were out and out against us! So what? What does that have to do with us now?! With this?"

"Only that you should have some faith that it's not going to end this soon," Joel said quietly.

Jim stared at him, the silent, grim look in the Sentinel's eyes making Taggert's own eyes sting. "And," the captain added steadily, "that you should have faith in Blair. He's a whole lot stronger than he looks right now."

Jim's gaze fell, and he started shaping the potatoes again, his movements restless, unfocused. Joel saw the muscle in his jaw jerk, but finally Jim nodded once.

"I'll remember that."

"Good," Taggert replied, trying not to relax too obviously and suspecting that it was wasted effort with the Sentinel. "Then I'll go relieve Simon for my shift while you finish." He stood, lifting his tray. "And while you're at it," he added wryly, "why don't you try eating those potatoes instead of assaulting them?"

Jim's lips stretched very slightly, and he nodded without looking up.

Joel smiled and turned toward a rack, sliding his tray in and heading back to the room, a slender sense of triumph rising in him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The loft was empty, and it echoed. Jim stood in the doorway and looked around. Darkness lurked in the corners, and the distance between himself and the inside of the loft stretched far beyond the few steps he could take. He stumbled forward, tripping on the edge of a rug and falling to his knees. Looking down, he saw the electric lights reflecting in the polished wood floor. He glanced up again, slanting his eyes against the glare, his gaze sweeping across the bare walls, the gleaming floor.

"Blair?"

It was only a whisper, but the word rebounded in his ears until he closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears to shut out the echoes.

When he dared to look again, he swallowed hard. The walls weren't just bare now, but gray, the floor dull. No rugs, no hangings, even the furniture looked dingy. The loft looked deserted and yet strangely familiar.

He took a sharp breath as the memory sank in, and struggled to his feet, stumbling forward until he could grab the doorframe of Blair's room and haul himself forward to peer in.

It was empty. No bed, no bookshelves, no books or papers or notebooks, no ever-present coat hanging on the closet door… and no scent of Blair. The room smelled dusty and old and deserted.

Blair was gone.

Jim felt that absence, like a stab wound pulled once too often, the stitches breaking, bleeding. Emptiness rushed over him, drowning him in dust, and he choked, dropping to his knees as he coughed, strangling for air, for breath… for Blair.

He woke, lifting his head from the pillow, pushing aside the curtains that had fallen across his face. _Thank God, it was a dream_.

But the thought brought no relief, and he rolled over to look at the clock on the hospital wall, clear even in the darkness to his Sentinel sight – three a.m. He had fallen asleep in the cot next to Blair's bed only half an hour before, at the doctor's orders. The only reason he'd followed them was that she'd pointed out that without sleep he wouldn't have the energy to effectively talk with or read to Blair. That and Simon's scowl as he reinforced her words.

3 a.m. There was something about that time, though.

He dropped his head back on the pillow as it hit him, his gut tightening. Seventy-two hours. That was how long Blair had been in coma. And past seventy-two hours, he knew, his partner's chances of waking up dropped even further.

He closed his eyes, fighting back despair. Joel was right; he had to have faith, in Blair and in… whatever. But seventy-two hours… He swallowed hard, his throat muscles aching.

His dream images flooded through his mind – the loft, as bare and empty and dead as his life had been before Sandburg had bounced into it. Without Blair there was no energy in his life, no zest, no commitment to it. If Blair didn't wake up, he left the Sentinel with an empty loft, echoing rooms, a barren life – and no reason to keep living it.

He listened to his friend's heartbeat, wishing that it would speed up, slow down, change in some way from the steady throb he heard so plainly. But there was nothing, and he rolled his head away from the hospital bed, closing his eyes tightly to cut off their stinging. The movement did nothing to stop the wet trickle that slid down the side of his face, soaking into the pillow.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

At 4 a.m. the hospital cafeteria was almost empty, its lights dimmed. Through the third floor windows the panorama of the city lights shone brightly, and Joel watched his friend stare out at the view.

Simon set his cup down with a sigh, then raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. Joel sipped his coffee and grimaced, lowering it to the table as well, studying Simon with a frown. This whole situation was taking a toll on his friend, and Joel took a futile breath, wishing that he could do something, say something, to ease the tired worry he saw etched across the captain's face.

"It's going to be all right, Simon," he said softly, the words lame.

"Is it?" Banks didn't look at him, and for a long moment there was silence. "You know, I remember when I first knew Blair, I told Jim that he was a liability, that he should cut the kid loose. That was before I knew about the Sentinel thing," he said in answer to Joel's surprised glance. "Jim refused." He took a long breath, still staring out the window. "And now I'm sitting in the hospital at four a.m., wondering what I'll do if he dies. Or what Jim will do."

Taggert gazed out at the landscape glimmering below them, watching the stars dim slowly in the eastern sky. "Can a Sentinel survive without his partner?" he asked at last, the words heavy in the predawn darkness around them.

Stillness lay between them for long moments, finally broken by Simon's soft answer. "I don't know."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _To serve and protect_.

Kane lay sleepless, staring upward from the bed he'd sought two hours before, after calling the hospital to check on Sandburg's condition. No change, the night nurse said sympathetically. That had been at three o'clock, and in the desperate hope that maybe he could escape the lead-heavy knowledge that the seventy-two hour deadline had come and gone without the civilian waking, Kane had climbed into bed, burrowing into the sheets as if he might find a hopeful oblivion there. He hadn't.

 _I killed him_ , he thought, guilt gnawing deep. _I killed him_.

 _Which 'him' are you claiming?_ asked his inner voice. _Blair Sandburg or Jim Ellison?_

Kane winced away from the question, turning on his side. _Is that what partners are like?_ he wondered, wistful awe moving through him. _To care about someone like that, to trust someone that much…_

Growing up on the streets, he understood loyalty well, and the security of trusting someone at your back. But trust had many degrees on the streets, and he'd never found anyone he trusted as much as Ellison obviously did Blair Sandburg. Whatever it was they had, it was something that left Jack Kane wordless with longing for it. Or for something like it.

He was slowly realizing that to serve and to protect meant more than defending your own turf, or the civilians he was sworn to guard. It also meant shielding those of his own force, whether official or not. By that standard, Blair was as much his brother in arms as was Ellison.

 _And I nailed them both_.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Did you get any sleep, Jim?" Simon asked, frowning as he stopped next to his friend.

"Not enough to mention," Jim replied wearily, not looking away from his focus outside the hospital window.

Joel stopped behind the two, gazing out the clear glass at the sunrise painting the sky with color. It was a picture of beauty in a personal landscape of looming tragedy, and he tried to lose himself in it.

Perhaps because he was closest to the bed and Jim was exhausted, Taggert heard the yawn first. For a moment he froze, unable to believe the sound, then he turned quickly, catching a brief glimpse of Blair stretching like a cat before Jim cut between them.

Taggert felt the smile stretch muscles unused to the exercise, and moved forward with Simon, glad relief running through him like water. The smile died as soon as he saw Blair.

The anthropologist was backed up against his pillows, his eyes wide as he took in Jim's focused expression. "Hey-hey, man," he said uneasily, "you okay?"

Jim stopped as if he'd run into a wall and stood staring at Blair with eyes that were slightly unfocused.

"Well, it's about time you woke up, Sandburg!" Simon said, stretching a hand toward the anthropologist in glad welcome. "I tell you, Jim here–"

He broke off as Jim turned and stumbled out of the room, blundering through the door with the gait of a man who was barely aware of his location. Simon stared after his detective, then turned back to Blair, a frown growing.

"What the hell?"

Taggert put a calming hand on his friend's shoulder as Blair moved away from the welcoming handshake. Simon's hand fell awkwardly to his side.

"Sandburg, this better be good. What–?"

Blair looked at him up at him questioningly. "How do you know my name?"

Simon stopped mid-word, staring at Blair with a look as shocked as Jim's.

"He doesn't know us, Simon," said Taggert softly, his hand still on his friend's shoulder.

"I can see that," Simon snapped in a tone he no doubt meant to be caustic, but which only came out sounding numb. He looked after Jim, then at Blair, who was staring at him with a worried expression, then glanced back at Taggert. "Joel, can you take care of him– of this? I've got to get to Jim. And I'll talk to the doctor, too."

"Go," Taggert said, squeezing Simon's shoulder and then dropping his hand as the captain strode swiftly to the door, casting a last worried glance back at the increasingly confused Blair.

The door shut behind him, and Blair turned a wary look on Taggert. "And who're you?"

Joel didn't answer immediately, instead studying the student with all the expertise that years of reading people had given him. The way the man moved, the pitch of his voice, his expressions…

"How old are you?" Taggert asked, trying to sound friendly.

Blair scowled. "What business is that of yours, man? And who are you, anyway? And–" He glanced around. "Where am I? What happened?"

Joel took a deep breath, but before he could answer any of the barrage of questions the door swung open again to admit a small crowd of medical personnel, and the captain found himself ushered out before he could protest.

"We'll get back to you as soon as possible," said a woman whom Joel recognized as Blair's primary doctor. "In the meantime," she added, "there's someone else who needs you."

The door shut behind her, and Taggert turned to face the twosome seated in the small lounge, his chest tightening at the tense, almost desperate look Simon shot him as he joined them.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"You mean," Simon said blankly, "he doesn't remember _anything?_ "

Dr. Sowabea frowned. "That's not exactly correct, Captain. He–"

"You mean he doesn't remember me," said Jim quietly, his gaze on the woman.

She looked at him, worry in her eyes. "No, Detective, that's not what I meant." She drew a breath, then looked over the three of them again before continuing. "Mr. Sandburg remembers his name, his early life, his mother, his history, everything. His memory is complete – it just stops a few years early."

"How early?" Joel said, leaning forward.

"Five years, to be exact," she answered, her gaze on Jim, who was wearing what Joel personally called his "stone-face."

The expression had been a warn-off signal to everyone before Blair, and Taggert wondered, with a sinking sensation somewhere in his solar plexus, whether this Blair would be able to get past it.

"I don't understand," Simon said almost plaintively, glancing sideways at Jim, who stared straight ahead. "I thought that amnesia was an all or nothing sort of thing. Either you lost all your memories or just a few minutes' worth."

The black woman nodded tiredly. "Yes," she said wearily, "that is the common perception. The truth is that amnesia can range anywhere between those two extremes, as Mr. Sandburg's does."

"What're his chances of recovering those memories?" Joel asked. "And what can we do to help?"

"Oh, his chances of full recovery are very good," said the doctor briskly. "Almost a certainty, in fact. He'll probably lose a few hours on either side of the physical trauma, perhaps as much as eight, perhaps as little as a few minutes. But he _will_ recover the memories."

Simon smiled, and Joel saw Jim's shoulders relax slightly, though his expression didn't shift.

"As for what you can do," said the woman, "you can take him home."

"What?!" yelped Simon, and Jim stirred as if in protest. "But he needs care, medications, something–"

"Please, Captain Banks," said Dr. Sowabea severely. "Physically, Mr. Sandburg is fine. Drugs and hospital care won't help him at this point. What he needs right now is to return to familiar surroundings and activities, to be with friends and family. That will hopefully start nudging his memories into the open where he can reclaim them. He won't get that here."

"No, but…" Simon trailed off, not quite looking at Jim.

There was a beat of silence, and then Joel cleared his throat. "I'll take care of him," he offered. "He can–"

"No." Jim's voice was final. "He comes home."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair watched them enter, nudging himself to remember them. It was weird, and disturbing, to know that these three men were friends, and yet, for all his inner pushing, all he could see were three strangers.

Maybe they were lying, though. Maybe they weren't friends, but rather interested in getting him to themselves for some reason, maybe–

 _Whoa, Blair_ , he cautioned himself, hauling back his imagination. _Don't play games with yourself. No one would want to do that to you; you're not that important to anyone. Not that way, anyway_.

Besides, he'd seen the looks on their faces when he'd woken up – that'd been honest joy and welcome. Strange to think he'd been in a coma for, what? Seventy-five hours. He shook his head, watching the white guy try not to look at him as he gathered up all the books sitting on the table next to the bed and stuffed them into a knapsack.

And that had been weird, too, those books. The doctor had told him that they had been reading to him pretty steadily ever since his first day there. Especially the white guy – now what was his name? Uh, Ellison, that was it. Jim Ellison. Now, one of those books was Burton's monograph, and that meant that this Ellison knew him pretty darn well. And that was scary, in a way. A lot like having a complete stranger peering through a window into your soul.

He watched Ellison as the man scooped up the clothes that lay across the other bed, wondering why he felt the man was very much aware of him, even while he seemed to be trying to ignore him.

He took a breath, looking carefully at the man. This couldn't be comfortable for any of them, either, when you got right down to it. A friend is in an accident (and just what kind of accident had that been, anyway? The doctor would only say that the three men would all explain it when they took him home, wherever that was), and you work all out to get him to wake up, and then when he does – bang! – he doesn't know you. No, not easy at all.

And try as he might, he just couldn't place these guys in his life. It was really frustrating, especially because he knew everything that had happened to him up to now. Or at least, that was how it felt, and he had to keep reminding himself that he was years older than he thought, that he wasn't just beginning his masters anymore, but was two years into his doctorate, and that life couldn't go on until he regained what he'd lost.

It was just that he didn't feel like he'd lost anything, damn it!

It'd probably be easier, he reflected wryly, if he felt like he actually couldn't remember anything rather than feeling like he'd just woken up that morning in the beginning of the second semester of his graduate work.

Well, when logic and memory failed, you went with feelings. How did the three men feel?

He looked across the room to the tall black man standing by the door, who was watching Ellison with a worried frown. Banks. What was his first name? Sean, Sam, no, uh, Simon, that was it. Simon Banks. Blair stared at him fixedly, trying to tap his own feelings. The man felt like someone he trusted, just not someone he was… comfortable with. Not really. More bark than bite, though, he'd bet.

He shifted his gaze to the other black man, leaning against a wall. Joel. He searched his name for a last name, but couldn't find it. Unlike the other two, Joel was keeping an eye on Blair, too, seemingly equally concerned about him and Ellison. But then, that fit the feeling he got from the man – close, easy to get along with, a confidant when needed. He was the one who'd talked to Blair first, telling the anthropologist his age and year in school, and identifying the other men and himself. But even he had been very closemouthed about anything more than basic facts. Even with his ability to go with the flow, Blair was beginning to really wonder about his own life and choices.

And then, last but definitely not least, there was Jim Ellison. Blair paused, studying the man with all the focus he could bring to the task. This was a man of rules, and boxes, and lines… What the hell kind of friendship had Blair built with him? They looked like they'd have absolutely nothing in common, and in fact the man resembled nothing more than the stuffed shirts he had spent a lot of time avoiding.

And yet…

The man resonated with him on some deeper level, which was strange, considering that the man looked like he _had_ no deeper level. But Blair felt… _safe_ around him.

_Safe? What the hell kind of life do I have that I need someone like this to feel 'safe' with? And 'safe' from what?_

He sat up straight, a sudden thought shaking through him. _Oh, please God don't tell me that I've lost myself somewhere along the way and I need him to lean on!_

"All right, Sandburg," Ellison said gruffly as he passed the younger man and headed toward the door, "let's go."

"Sure," Blair said slowly as he slid off his bed and followed the three men into the hallway, pondering why he felt the man had almost called him something else.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Hoo, boy, man!" Blair stared up at the loft in shock. "You've gotta be kidding me; there's no _way_ I could afford something like this!"

"You don't," Jim said shortly as he parked the truck behind Blair's Corvair, Simon's car swinging in behind him. "I do."

"Oh," Blair replied, staring at his own car with a puzzled frown. "So we're just stopping here on the way?"

"No." Jim got out of the car and slammed the door behind him, regretting the move when he saw the anthropologist flinch at the noise.

"O-kay," Blair said as he climbed out, joining Simon and Joel where they waited tensely on the sidewalk for the two.

Jim plowed his way past his friends, heading for the place that somehow didn't feel like home right now. He knew that tone of Blair's, and waited for the inevitable follow-up. It didn't take long.

"Hey, man," Blair said close behind him as they neared the entrance, "you mind letting me in on the secret here? I mean, what's going on?"

Jim fitted the key into the lock, automatically extending his hearing to check the house for heartbeats. He wasn't prepared for the surge of dizziness that caught him instead, and he wavered, almost falling. Blair's hand caught his elbow.

"Hey, easy," Sandburg said soothingly, his voice dropping automatically into the tone he used with Jim at moments like this. "Easy, just relax, take deep breaths, okay?"

Jim relaxed into the voice, old habits forcing his trust until the dizziness waned, then stiffening as his conscious mind realized what had happened.

"I'm fine," Ellison said shortly, pushing the door open and stepped through, shaking Blair's grip.

Blair stared after him, then shrugged and followed him in, trailed by Simon and Joel.

Jim busied himself in the kitchen, using the activity to watch Blair's exploration of the loft, berating himself for his behavior as he did so. _What kind of friend am I being?_ he asked himself as he poured drinks. _Here Blair's confused and needing support from me, and what do I do? Everything but kick him out of my space_.

He shook his head, absently tracking Blair's progress through the living room without looking up. Right now the young man was fascinated by the masks hanging on the wall, staring up at them, his heartbeat faster than normal.

 _Does he recognize them?_ Jim wondered as he placed the drinks on a tray and started into the living room. _Even if he didn't already have them back then, I'll bet he can tell they're his_.

He set the tray down on a table near the couch and joined Simon on its cushions. Joel had already chosen the chair, which was fine, since Jim didn't feel like sitting alone anyway. He glanced up, his gaze following Blair as he wandered the room, his eyes taking in everything.

Jim heard the sharp intake of breath as the anthropologist turned the corner into his own room, and for a long moment the man just stood there, staring inside.

Then, turning, he came straight over to Jim, looking at him evenly. "All right, man, what's going on? A good half of this stuff is mine," he waved his hand around the loft, his gaze never leaving Ellison. "I can tell that, even if I don't remember most of it. And that room's mine." He paused, looking at Jim with an intent focus that Jim realized he hadn't seen turned on him since their first meeting. "So what gives?"

Jim took a deep swallow of liquor, fire burning down to his belly. "Yes, it's yours. This is our–" He hesitated fractionally. "Our apartment."

"Ours?" asked Blair. "You mean, like yours and mine?" He waited for Jim's nod, then said bluntly, "Are we lovers?"

Simon spewed the mouthful of beer he'd just taken all over the table in front of him, coughing viciously while Joel helpfully wacked him across his back, looking no less stunned than the captain.

Jim coughed twice, then cleared his throat. "No," he said bluntly. "Roommates, friends," he said, stumbling over the words, then ended, "but not that."

"Then what?"

Jim lowered the beer to the table and set it down, noticing absently that his hand was shaking slightly. He closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with his hands, then dropped them and met Blair's eyes. "You're my partner."

Blair's eyes widened, then narrowed in puzzlement. "Huh?"

Jim rose, forcing the anthropologist to back up as the officer headed to the window, staring out for a long moment of silence.

Outside, shadows stretched long under the trees, and a little girl went whizzing by on her skateboard. Jim watched her pass wistfully, wishing he could just look forward to sharing an ordinary evening off with the three men behind him, or better yet, with just Blair.

He hunched his shoulders, remembering the last time he'd felt like this, several months ago, back with… Natalie. Even now a shiver threaded down his back with that name, and he turned away from it hastily, even while his rational mind reminded him that she was dead. Dead, yes, but just how dead could a woman be who had been, for all intents and purposes, a psychic vampire? He drew a breath, forcibly bringing himself back to the here and now.

 _At least Blair's alive and awake_ , he reminded himself. _At least there's that_. Two days ago he would've sold his soul to achieve that, but now…

 _In some ways_ , he admitted, _it's as if Blair had died, at least to me_. Or as if they had to start all over again, and Jim wasn't sure he had it in him to do that. Building their friendship had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and he wasn't sure he could repeat it. He shifted uneasily, feeling Blair's gaze on his back, waiting.

But he had to try.

And one thing was sure – if he didn't, Blair would never forgive him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair watched the man warily, concern creeping through him. This whole situation was obviously a whole hell of a lot harder on Ellison than he wanted to let on, and Blair realized, staring at his ultra-straight back, that there was a very large piece of his own personal history tied up in this house, with this man, and he'd be damned if he walked away from it. He took a breath, relaxing into the house and his own life and living of it for the first time since he'd woken up. Whatever was going on, he wanted to remember it, to be a part of it, with Jim. And Simon, and Joel. They were pieces of this puzzle, too, but–

He looked back at Ellison, standing so very much alone at the window – the picture, and its frame, rested in this house, with Jim, and with himself.

Well, no time like the present to start rebuilding. He stepped forward to join Ellison, the ease of the move telling him that the place next to Jim was his by right.

"Partner?" he asked softly as he reached the man, standing balanced and ready. "What kind of partner are we talking about?" He saw Ellison's shoulders tense, and added, "I mean, hey, man, I'm an anthropologist, you know? What kind of partner would I be? And why do you need me anyway?"

Jim was silent a moment longer, then turned and looked down at him. "What do you know about Sentinels?"

Blair blinked. That wasn't what he'd expected. He quickly searched his memory, then shrugged. "Not much, I'm afraid. I know Sir Richard Burton – the explorer–"

"– not the actor," Jim finished impatiently. "Yeah, I know, Chief, we've already had this conversation. What else do you know?"

 _Chief? Okay, interesting_. Watching Jim's expression, Blair realized that the man hadn't even realized what he'd said, and he nodded to himself. Obviously a well-established nickname. Warmth touched him, and he smiled, the urge growing to know what lay behind the so-casual term.

"Uh, well, that they were tribal watchmen who used to keep an eye on the movement of game, weather patterns, and the like. Tribal survival depended on them."

He took a breath as Jim nodded. Obviously he and Jim had had a conversation like this before – and what a totally eerie feeling that was.

"Uh, let's see. I'm interested in manifestations of ancient cultural remnants that can be found in modern societies, and I've wondered if the enhanced senses common to Sentinels might still exist in some limited form. I've started researching people who use one or two senses, like for coffee–"

"–and perfume companies," Jim said, his tone telling Blair that the words were a quote.

Sandburg swallowed, a chill creeping down his spine. _Oh, man_.

"Uh, yeah," he said, running a hand through his hair. "But I haven't gotten very far yet." He caught himself and added, "I mean, that's what I remember having done."

Jim nodded, his eyes intense on Blair. "You have hundreds and hundreds of case studies on people with one or two hyperactive senses, but you never found anyone with all five…" He paused, taking a breath. "Until me."

Blair blinked, all the information in his mind cascading into instantaneous new patterns that nonetheless felt very familiar. "You're a Sentinel?" He didn't wait for Jim's small nod, starting to pace. "But in modern industrialized societies, a Sentinel would go mad with the sensory barrage. Even in tribal societies it was chancy. Unless…"

"Unless he had a partner," Jim finished softly. "That's what you told me; that a Sentinel always had someone at his back to watch out for him, help him when things went wrong, pull him out of zone-outs."

Blair stopped, looking at him in amazement. "Oh, man, this is too weird. That was a term I came up with sometime last semester, no evidence for it, just speculation."

Jim waited a moment, then added, "It's not speculation anymore, Ch– Sandburg."

Blair took a deep breath. "No, I guess not." He paced back to front Ellison, meeting his eyes. "Okay, that tells me what I'm doing here. But it doesn't tell me a thing about you. And them." He gestured back towards Simon and Joel, not looking at them. "So what kind of things do you– do _we_ do?"

Jim loosed a breath. "I'm a detective in the Major Crimes Department of the Cascade Police. Simon's my captain, and Joel's captain of the Bomb Squad. Both of them know about what we do."

Blair swallowed, hard, then backed up and sat down on the first object he found, which happened to be a low table. "Oh, man. Me, partner to a detective? Did I pick up some training along the way here that I don't remember? I mean, hey, I'm not qualified to ride shotgun, you know what I mean?"

Jim stepped forward, reaching to touch Sandburg's shoulder. The light touch was automatic, then gone as he pulled back, saying, "You've done just fine."

Blair shook his head, standing again, a dogged strength in the move that made Jim blink with its familiarity. "Maybe so. I guess I must've. You don't look like the kind of guy who'd tolerate someone who goofed up."

"Sandburg," Simon said quietly from behind him, "you've made mistakes, but you've learned from them. You and Jim are one of the best teams I've got."

Blair glanced back at Banks, breaking into a grin. "I think I better remember you said that, 'cause I have a feeling I'll never hear it again."

"You got that right," Simon agreed, his tone relaxing into the half-growl.

The anthropologist's smile widened and he sat down again on the table. "So what do I do–" He broke off, standing. "Oops, sorry. I know you don't like that–" He stumbled to a stop, glancing down at the table, then up at Jim. "You don't like that, do you?"

Wordless, hope rising in his throat, Jim shook his head. "No," he said hoarsely, "but go ahead."

Blair frowned, wearing the look of a man who was looking inward, then shook his head. "No. No, it has to be normal to trigger memories, man. And somehow I know that sitting on anything except chairs gets you uptight."

There was a smothered chuckle from behind them, but both men ignored it, matching gazes.

"Yeah," Jim said lowly, "I guess it does. House rules."

"Okay," Blair said soberly. "So I'll try to do what feels right, and you tell me if I'm wrong, okay?"

Jim nodded, and Blair stepped forward, his expression intense. "And one more thing, man." Jim quirked an eyebrow at him, and he looked at him evenly. "You call me Chief, don't you?"

Ellison caught his breath, then exhaled as he remembered his slip earlier. "Yeah."

"So call me Chief now," Blair instructed, his breathing tight and shallow. "Or whatever else you normally call me. Okay?"

The detective swallowed, his friend's tension triggering his own. "All right… Chief."

Blair smiled slowly. "Cool. And I call you Jim, right?"

Ellison nodded.

The anthropologist nodded back, then grinned. "All right! So, what do I do in this team we've got going?" He yawned abruptly, and Jim's lips quirked.

"Whatever I tell you," he replied blandly, "and right now I'm telling you to get some sleep."

"Yeah, right," said Blair, recognizing the statement for the falsehood it was. "I don't think so, man. And by the way, what happened to me out there to put me in the hospital in the first place?"

Jim smiled and put a hand on his guide's shoulder, turning him toward his bedroom. This time, the move didn't feel wrong, and he left his hand there as Blair balked, hunching his shoulders against the grip and halting after one step.

"No way, man!" Sandburg protested. "I've got a lot of catching up to do, and we need to talk. Then I need to study, and–"

"Chief," said Jim as he nudged him toward his room, "shut up. You just woke up from a seventy-five hour coma, and the doctor said you'd probably tire out sooner than usual. So go to bed."

Blair swallowed a yawn, then shook his head energetically. "Cut it out, man! Jim. You're not my mother, and I'm not going to bed! I've got too much to do!"

Jim smiled down at him. "You're yawning."

Blair looked innocently up at him. "Only once, man. And that's a natural reaction to relief of tension, not a sign of tiredness." He forcibly locked his jaws against another yawn, smiling at the Sentinel. "So, see, I'm ready to roll–"

"Three times," said Jim. Looking down at the younger man, he saw the moment when realization dawned.

Blair opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it. "Damn," he said softly. "This is gonna take some getting used to." He looked up at Ellison. "Just how much do you listen to me, anyway?"

Jim met his eyes soberly. For the moment it was just the two of them in a world of their own, and he knew that Blair recognized the feeling as one that was common between them. "You're my partner, Blair. I know your heartbeat better than my own."

"And everything else about me, too, I bet," said Blair very softly, his gaze questioning.

Jim nodded, then shoved his friend toward the bedroom. "Bed," he said sternly. "Sleep. I'll wake you for dinner."

Blair studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "And then we'll talk," he said, turning toward the room with the last words.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim lifted the lid and sniffed appreciatively as steak scent poured out. Not that he needed to remove the cover; the scent was strong without it, but he enjoyed the smell. Saliva flooded his mouth, and he swallowed, smiling. For the first time in days, he was hungry, and he hoped that Blair was, too.

He peeled the potatoes efficiently, enjoying the easy way the strips of skin fell away from the tubers, then sliced them into chunks and loaded them into a pot of water, setting it to boil before reaching for Blair's heartbeat.

 _Still asleep_. That was good; the anthropologist had been exhausted, though he might not have realized that until he lay down, and then he was asleep in seconds.

Jim, sharing a low-voiced discussion with Joel and Simon, had heard his friend's breathing even out and felt something in himself relax with the younger man. That soothing background allowed him to smile at the two men, assuring them that he and Blair would be okay, and that he would call if needed. Tomorrow was Tuesday, but though Simon wanted him on the job, the captain was willing to waive it for a few days. Jim had thanked him, but told him that it would depend on Sandburg's willingness to come in. He had a pretty good idea what Blair's response to that would be. The anthropologist might not have all his memories, but his attitudes and responses were pretty much as they had always been, and he'd be anxious to get back into the swing of things.

And so was Jim. Maybe on the job, Blair would start to remember.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair stretched lazily, then relaxed, enjoying the soft cotton sheets against his skin. The room was dark, since there was no window to let in the daylight, and he smiled, enjoying the late twilight feel, even though he had a notion that it was actually closer to late afternoon. But that was okay. Semi-darkness made it easier to think sometimes, and he had a lot to think about.

First off, Jim's awareness of him. Now that was eerie. And… humbling, too, in a way, he decided. To mean that much to someone was pretty awesome.

Given what the man had said, he was probably aware that Blair was awake now, too.

The anthropologist shook his head, pushing himself upward to survey the room. That knowledge didn't bear much thinking about, otherwise he'd drive himself up the wall with self-consciousness. Did the Sentinel even know his scent?

Blair stopped to consider that one, and then decided he'd better not. Nothing like knowing that your partner could track you like a bloodhound to make your day. Though depending on who had you…

_Was that why I thought maybe they were strangers out to kidnap me? Have I been kidnapped before? And is that why Jim feels safe?_

He thought about that a moment, then shivered. That felt familiar… and right. Too damn right.

He threw back the covers and swung his legs off the bed, leaning to tap the lamp on the nightstand a few feet from him. Light immediately bathed the room and Blair froze as golden halos blurred over his vision.

The Golden Fire People – there they were! He swung around, pulling the trigger of the gun he held, the resulting echo making him cringe. Was this what Jim had to deal with when his hearing overloaded? Jim. Jim was safe. Blair had led the Golden Fire People down here, to the garage. They couldn't hurt anyone down here, not if he was careful. And Jim–

"It's all right, Chief."

Blair blinked. His room was quiet around him, the lamplight a normal cheery white. He was leaning into Jim, whose arms circled him protectively. Sweat inched down his back, and he swallowed, taking a deep breath and forcing tense muscles to relax. He straightened, and Jim released him, moving away, but only fractionally.

Blair took another breath, then glanced up into the blue eyes that were still watching him worriedly. "Was that–? Was that real?"

Jim hesitated, then nodded. "The event, yes, but not your memories of it." He saw Blair's frown, and glanced away, then back. "You were drugged, Sandburg. What you're remembering is the hallucinations you had while the golden was in your system. The doctor said you might have flashbacks to some memories, remember? I guess it makes sense that you started with this one."

Blair shivered. "Man, I hope this kind of thing isn't typical in our work. That was _not_ fun!"

Jim's lips lifted very slightly at the familiar phrase.

Blair looked at him warily. "That kind of thing doesn't happen a lot, does it?"

"Of course not," Jim said, standing. "Ready for dinner?"

"Sure," Blair said, following him out. "Why do I have the feeling you're not telling me the whole truth?" But he said it softly, and Jim didn't answer him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"So what do I do, anyway?" Blair asked as he forked a mouthful of potatoes into his mouth. "Man, I hope these potatoes are organic."

Jim's lips twitched. Some things never changed. "Yes, Chief," he said resignedly. "You picked them out, in fact."

"Oh," Blair said blankly, then rallied. "Good. So what do I do?"

Jim hesitated, uncertain. "Well, you teach classes, and work on your–"

"No-no-no!" Blair said, waving his luckily-empty fork in the air. "I mean, what do I do with _you?_ "

Jim opened his mouth, then closed it. "Uh, you help me with the senses. And with zone-outs."

"Well, yeah," Blair agreed. "I know that. But how?"

Jim looked at him helplessly. "Well, you're there. It's easier then." He paused, obviously searching his memory. "You run tests," he added, "and, um, explain things." He saw Blair's confused look, and shrugged. "Hell, Chief, I don't know. You're the one who thinks about this stuff!"

Blair grinned. "Yeah, I can tell." He raised his hands in a pacifying gesture at Jim's half-angry look. "Hey, nothing wrong with that, Jim. You've got enough to do having the senses; makes sense that I'm the one who thinks about them. No problem; I can wing it."

Jim frowned at his plate, unsure why the answer bothered him. "You can read your journals again. Maybe that would help."

"Hey, great idea!" Blair enthused, his eyes sparkling. "I'll go do that right now."

Jim reached over and caught his partner's shoulder as Blair started to bounce to his feet. "Eat first."

"Huh?" Blair replied, blinking. "Oh, yeah. No problem." He sank down again, picking up his fork.

There was silence for a moment as Sandburg watched the detective eat, then he frowned. "Hey, Jim," he said quietly, "what's that?" He motioned to the Sentinel's left hand, and Jim hesitated, then extended it, palm up. The long, thin line of scar ran diagonally across the palm, and Blair traced it lightly. "Wow. What happened?"

Jim didn't answer, just held out his right hand to Blair, who frowned at him, then, as the detective snapped his fingers at him, he lifted his left hand from his lap and held it out.

Jim grasped his hand and turned it palm up, revealing the narrow scar running diagonally across the palm, mirror image of Jim's.

Blair blinked, then swallowed, his gaze flicking from his hand to Jim's. "Wow," he said softly. "That's pretty cool, man."

Jim nodded, his eyes holding Blair's for a long moment before he released him and started eating again.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, and he knew that the dreams were real.

Running, running, all out, and then he crashed into Jim, throwing the detective flat under the garbage truck, the long driveshaft flashing over their heads as it rolled over them, the truck slowing to a halt after it passed…

He tugged frantically at the ropes binding him to the chair, calling on all his understanding of Lash to know what to say next. The man turned, and Blair swallowed the surge of horror at seeing his own face and figure loom over him. Then Lash's hands forced the foul-tasting liquid down his throat…

Down, down, down to the fierce white water at the foot of the cliff – he shook his head, and Jim shoved him off and leaped after him…

Blair caught his breath as he abruptly woke, his stomach lurching in the familiar elevator drop. "Whoa," he whispered, then closed his lips with a grimace. "Sorry, Jim. No problem."

He shook his head, wondering how he knew that Jim was still hesitating in his own bed. "Honestly, man," he said softly. "I'm okay."

He _felt_ Jim's relaxation touch him, and knew that the Sentinel had lain back down, trusting him, and he sighed, his tension easing. _Boy_ , he thought, _some memories! But at least they're coming back_.

He sat up, studying his bookshelves with a frown. _But not fast enough_.

He thought back to the night before, when he'd been up late, reading through his own journals. If he hadn't recognized his own writing, he might've seriously wondered if they were fictional stories, fantastical as they were. And he hadn't even worked his way through more than the first two of the thirteen so far written – God only knew what lay in the ones he hadn't opened yet.

He pulled his knees up and hugged them to his chest, resting his chin on them. Last night's reading had made one thing extremely clear, though, and that was simply that whatever it was he did with Jim, lives depended on it. Not just his own and Jim's lives, either, but many others'. There were innocent civilians out there who neither knew or cared about himself and Jim who nonetheless relied on them. And Jim relied on him. Jim trusted him.

And that trust scared Blair more than almost anything else, because he wasn't sure he was up to it. He felt very much alone, and very young and inexperienced. He knew that his older self had researched everything possible about Sentinels by the time he'd found Jim, and that he would've continued that research. His older self's knowledge was much deeper and wider than his own, and Blair felt the bite of those limitations in his gut.

 _Where do you go to ask for directions how to be a partner to a Sentinel?_ he wondered, a half-smile brief across his face.

 _There's no resources I can tap for that, no research, no practical advice I can ask, no one I can even tell, let alone ask for help_.

He sighed, a humorless chuckle escaping him. _The only person I can ask is right here, and, guess what, folks? The lights are on and no one is home – sort of_.

He grimaced as he looked across to his well-stacked bookshelves. Everything there applied in some way, but how to read all of it in the short time he had, and know how to apply it when he knew it… That was the other problem, too, one he couldn't explain to Jim, who thought it was simply a matter of re-absorbing facts and data.

But it was more than that. A graduate student in a master's program thought differently than an undergraduate did, pulling together information and knowledge in a variety of ways that were simply not available to those not in graduate school. It wasn't just more knowledge or information, but a qualitatively new way of using it, looking at it, thinking about it. And doctorate students, in their turn, thought differently than those with a masters degree, having a deeper focus, a wider cast of thought, a depth and breadth that again, was beyond the grasp of those students still levels below them. And that was where the problem lay.

As far as Blair knew, he was just beginning his masters, and he simply didn't have the means of understanding the knowledge in his own notes as they needed to be understood. And memories of experiences he'd shared with Jim weren't enough, either. They helped, but until he could regain the learning he'd mastered to make sense of them, the experiences remained only memories of events, nothing more.

And that lack of knowledge and how to understand it, think with it, use it, was what made Blair's stomach clench as he sat staring at his crowded bookshelves.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Go on, Jim, do what you have to do," Blair said patiently, waving a hand toward the robbery in progress inside the small convenience store.

Jim looked down at him, frown lines deep around his eyes. "Chief–"

"Look, Jim," Blair interrupted, meeting his gaze. "We're partners, right?"

"Yes, but–"

"No buts. You have a job to do, so do it. I'll find some way to call for backup – there must be a pay phone around here somewhere. But I'm safe out here, and you can't babysit me on the job."

Jim still hesitated, and Blair grimaced. "Hey, man, come on, don't you trust me? I promise I'll stay right here, safe and sound, okay?"

The detective's lips quirked slightly. "It's not that I don't trust your word, Sandburg; it's just that trouble has a habit of finding you whatever you say."

Blair shrugged. "Then I'll handle it. I usually do, don't I? Now go on, get in there. What if those guys in there start shooting? There's lives at stake here."

Jim grimaced. "I know." _And one of them's yours_. He looked at the anthropologist one more time, then turned and headed toward the store.

Blair watched Jim go and shook his head. Ellison could say all he wanted about his guide's tendency to get into trouble, but it was the detective who'd suggested they walk down the street to the small cafe to get breakfast, passing by the convenience store on the way and realizing that there was a problem.

He shook himself, shrugging off the thought and glancing around. Now, where was a phone?

He spotted one on the wall of the service station next to the convenience store and started toward it. It wasn't until he'd picked up the receiver that he realized that he didn’t know the phone number to use. Did he dial 911 and ask the operator for Dispatch (that was what it was called, wasn't it?) and then request backup for, uh, "an officer in need of assistance?" He hoped that wasn’t just true on TV. Or was he supposed to know another number that dialed straight to the precinct, presumably to Simon’s office? And if he just dialed 911 and went the dispatcher route, well, yes, he knew Simon’s name, but he hadn’t a clue to their precinct. Oh, yeah, and if it came to that, he didn’t have any change on him anyway – Jim had their money; he’d said it was his treat this morning.

Blair resisted an urge to beat his head against the wall. Taking a deep breath, he dialed 911 and prayed he’d get an understanding operator.

Too many minutes later, he said goodbye to Simon and put the receiver down with relief, repeating the man’s phone number as he turned, determined to memorize it (again!).

The man who burst around the corner of the store plowed right into the anthropologist, and the two of them went down into a struggling heap. Blair’s momentary abstraction cost him as the man, his reactions fueled by adrenaline, grabbed him, dragging him to his feet and away from the store, one arm around his throat.

Blair took a breath and sagged, all his weight landing suddenly on the man’s arm. The stranger stumbled, his grip loosening, and Sandburg caught himself on the balls of his feet and whirled, snatching the air hose from the ground nearby and swinging it at the man, who ducked, his arm coming up to shield himself.

Blair grabbed the arm and sprang past him, forcing it up in a lock and throwing the man to the ground just as Jim sprinted around the corner of the building, his gun out and his expression somewhat wild until he saw Blair, a knee in the man’s back, twisting his arm higher as the stranger bucked.

Jim took a deep breath, then lowered his gun, sheathing it as he strode over to Blair. "Good going, Chief."

Taking out his handcuffs, Ellison snapped them onto the suspect, then gave Blair a hand up.

"Are you all right?"

Blair glared at him. "I thought you said this kind of thing didn’t happen very often!"

Jim’s lips twitched. "I lied."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair followed Jim into the elevator in the many-storied police station, swallowing against a surge of sudden claustrophobia as the doors slid shut.

"Damn," Jim muttered as he realized that the elevator arrow pointed down rather than up.

Blair gritted his teeth against an abrupt surge of what he had to classify as sheer terror as the elevator dropped smoothly down the shaft. Sweat dampened his palms, and his fingers slipped as he grasped the railing along the side. _What the hell–?_

"Easy, Chief," Jim said soothingly, dropping a hand on his shoulder. "I forgot; you've basically dealt with this, but right now…"

"Right now what?" Blair asked through his teeth as the elevator came to a stop at the garage level, the door opening to admit a portly older man who nodded courteously to them both.

Jim lifted his hand as the door opened, and was silent until the man got off on the third floor.

"Dealt with what?" demanded Blair, finding it slightly easier to breathe when the elevator was moving up. "Come on, Jim!" he added when his friend hesitated.

Ellison sighed. "Around a year ago you were caught in an elevator that a terrorist was using to hold some people hostage." He shrugged at Blair's questioning look. "The man dropped it several times… several stories."

Blair swallowed as the implications of the description hit home, and took a breath as the doors opened and Jim gestured him out, trying not to look like he was leaping out of the space, and suspecting it was a wasted effort with the Sentinel. That was one memory he wasn't looking forward to reclaiming.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair hesitated uncertainly as Jim entered the squad room of Major Crimes, stopping inside the door to stare around. He didn't recognize anything.

The loud cheer that rang out startled him, and he flinched as he was mobbed, the subsequent backslapping and shaking leaving him breathless.

"Here's to Blair!" yelled someone after the group had drawn off. "For he's a jolly good fellow…"

In the ensuing hullabaloo, Blair managed to calm his racing heartbeat, reassured by seeing Jim standing by Simon's office, smiling, though the expression was somewhat uncertain until the student relaxed enough to give him a nod and a thumbs-up, whereupon the detective grinned and turned to talk with Simon.

Blair took a moment to study the people and the room as everyone calmed down, the noise subsiding to what he knew must be the ordinary buzz as the officers returned to work, offering him an occasional smile and buffet on the shoulder as they passed. No one seemed to expect a response, and he guessed that everyone had been warned about his lack of memory.

It was weird, he thought as he wandered toward what he could tell was Jim's desk, smiling tentatively at people as he passed. What he felt in this room, with these people, was a strange blend of complete familiarity and total distance. He didn't recognize anything or anyone, but the room and everyone in it felt like something he'd known very well once upon a time.

It was, he thought, a lot like what someone in a science fiction book might feel in an alternate time line to their own – like things were _almost_ right, but not quite. He remembered, as a child, feeling that if he could just turn a corner fast enough, look in the right direction at the right time, that he could cross the boundaries of the world and walk into another one. He'd been sure that magic had touched all the edges, and if he could just find the right place, the right way to look, that he'd be able to see it, to share it. That was how he felt right now; that if he could just turn the right corner, everything would be in place again.

He sighed, shaking his head as he sat down at Jim's desk. If only it were that easy.

That belief in magic had stayed with him throughout his life, serving as the impetus for his explorations into meditation and other metaphysical experiences. He'd learned a healthy respect for the wild and unusual, carefully keeping an open mind about what he heard, no matter how bizarre it might sound.

And that was good, because right now his situation was about as bizarre as it could be.

Joel passed by, smiling at him, and Blair returned it, thankful for the seeming ease of the welcome and the down to earth reminder to live in the moment. He glanced across the room to check on his partner, who had just been sidetracked by the coffee and donut cart and was now helping himself to each.

Now, Jim… There was a man who wouldn't believe in the edges of reality if he walked across them.

Blair watched as the Sentinel poured two packets of Equal into one coffee cup and stirred it, then lifted it and another coffee, this one black, onto a tray together with three donuts and headed toward the anthropologist. The recognition that the sweetened coffee was his, and that one of the donuts was his favorite kind warmed him, and he smiled, awed again by the relationship between them.

On the other hand, Jim Ellison was a Sentinel. And Blair had a feeling that they'd had some pretty wild adventures of their own, ones that might've strayed off the beaten path.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Kane hunched behind his dinner, leaning into the shadows of his corner to conceal himself from the two men sharing lunch several tables away. He knew from what he'd overheard that Blair had dragged Jim to the frequently-used cafe in the hopes that familiar food and surroundings would jog some memories. He could also tell it wasn't working.

 _Damn, damn, damn_ , thought Kane savagely. _Why me? Why can't they just leave me alone?_

He sighed, pulling himself back from the brink of anger. It was hardly like the two were pursuing him; hell, he knew this was a favorite place of theirs; it was why he'd chosen it in the first place, months ago. They didn't even know he was there; or at least, he certainly hoped they didn't. Accepting Blair's cheerful forgiveness at the station had been bad enough. Dealing with them civilly over lunch would be more than he could handle.

He stabbed his fork into the burrito on his plate, halting the move just before sending the food into his lap. And it wasn't that he didn't appreciate Blair's attempt to talk to him, but, damn it, how could it be real when the man didn't even remember what Jack had done?

He'd asked that, too, the question forced by his incredulity that Blair would even attempt a conversation between them. The observer had grinned and told him that he might not have all his memories, but he knew he didn't hold grudges.

"Too unhealthy, man," he said sagely, shaking his head. "Life's too short to spend with that kind of negative baggage, you know what I mean? I don't need my memories to know how I'd feel about that. So shake on it, huh?"

And what could he do but accept the hand thrust into his and smile, all the while knowing that while Blair might forgive and forget, the rest of Major Crimes wouldn't? And the look Jim and Simon gave him behind Blair's back made it clear that it would be a cold day in hell when they did. And he couldn't blame them; he'd be building snowmen in hell before he forgot that moment.

_Blair jerked and fell, a shot echoing across the grass, punctuated by Ellison's wordless shout as his partner went down… a bullet plowing into the dirt where Kane had been lying only seconds before… Jim's heedless plunge into danger as he raced toward his friend…_

Kane shook himself out of the memory, taking a deep, calming breath to ease the tension gripping his gut. Yes, it'd be a very long time before he left that scene in his past. Even if Blair could forgive him, he couldn't forgive himself. And if Blair didn't recover his memories…

But he would. The doctor had said so. Amnesiacs always recovered. Well, almost always.

Kane propped his chin on his hand and studied the two at the other table. Blair was amazingly resilient right now, but even Kane could see the strain of the situation wearing on him, especially in the stationhouse when he thought Jim wasn't looking.

For just a moment Kane had seen Blair as the young man he was at the moment, nervous, hesitant, trying very hard to keep up a brave front for everyone, unwilling or unable to lean on anyone for his own strength. The desperate uncertainty he'd glimpsed at that moment had forced Kane to look away, and now he swallowed again, his own guilt twisting low in his belly.

 _All my fault. All mine_.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Hey, Chief," said Jim, poking his head into Blair's room, "how does this smell to–" He broke off when he saw the anthropologist.

Blair sat cross-legged, eyes closed. His breathing was slow but steady, and Jim realized that his heartbeat was slower as well, though the Sentinel hadn't noticed it as he went about making dinner.

Jim frowned. Pushing open the door, he moved inside, kneeling beside his friend.

"Chief?"

There was no response, and Jim's frown deepened, then he blinked as he realized why the position looked familiar – it was an echo of Naomi's meditative stance when she visited. Nodding, he rose and backed quietly out of the room, saying softly, "No problem, Sandburg," as he closed the door silently behind him.

Back in the kitchen again, Jim concentrated on stirring the spaghetti sauce, thinking about his young partner. Blair was trying so hard to remember that it made his heart twist to watch. All day, asking questions about where they usually went and what they typically ate, lunching at a well-known cafe, revisiting familiar locations until Jim's head hurt… and all for nothing.

Not one shred of returned memory for all the work. And now it was clear that, having tried the mundane route, Blair was now branching into the not so mundane, and that made Jim decidedly uneasy.

He grimaced as he poured the crackling pasta into the boiling water. Part of his uneasiness sprang, he knew, from the fact that if something went wrong, he couldn't protect Blair. Meditation, magic, all that kind of stuff simply made his hair stand on end. He didn't scoff at it as much as he once had – kind of hard to do that after dealing with Natalie – but he'd rather avoid any connection with it. But with Blair around, that was impossible.

Choosing a large spoon, he stirred the sauce briefly, then, leaving the spoon on the trivet set in the middle of the stove, he opened the refrigerator to pull out the chives, laying them out to chop.

It wasn't like Blair didn't meditate or do any of the other weird stuff on a regular basis, but Jim couldn't help thinking that it was more dangerous when his partner didn't have all his memories to guide him. But Sandburg had grown up with weird stuff, and meditation was almost as much a part of his life as it was of Naomi's. He had more than enough experience with the state, even without his current memories of its use, to deal with any dangers there might be.

None of which made Jim feel any easier about it.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair took a deep breath, then another, then opened his eyes, blinking against the dimness of his unlit room. He uncrossed his legs and sighed as he leaned back against the bed, relaxing as he came up from the meditation. He heard dishes clink in the kitchen, and the scent of spaghetti made his mouth water. Supper would be ready soon.

Having brought himself fully into waking consciousness, Blair settled back to think about his efforts. Well, the stairway leading to his memories had spiraled into darkness, vanishing halfway around a curve. The ensuing accident had been much like falling downstairs, and he'd never managed to find the stairwell again, much to his frustration. He grimaced, climbing to his feet. So much for that effort.

He put it aside for the moment, intent on pursuing another avenue of research. Opening the door, he went in search of Jim.

"Hey, man," he said a few minutes later as they sat down to eat, "I've been wondering. Why do you need me anyway?" He blinked at Jim's near look of panic, and added, "I mean, once we figured out how your senses worked, why'd you need me around anymore? Except for zone-outs, it seems like you just wouldn't need someone like me, and anyone should be able to help you break out of those." He shrugged, eyes on Jim as the Sentinel dug his fork into the mixture of sauce and pasta and swirled the strands around the tines.

Jim swallowed the bite, then shook his head. "I don't know, Sandburg. I asked you the same question when we began. I figured after I got a handle on the senses that you'd have all the information you needed for your dissertation and I'd never see you again. But it didn't work out that way."

"Why not?" Blair asked, leaning forward. "It never worked with Sentinels in Burton's monograph, either, but I never figured out why they'd need such constant companionship."

Jim munched thoughtfully, then swallowed. "You told me once that genetically enhanced senses weren't normal, that they didn't have the same safeguards and limitations as normal ones did."

"I did?" Blair replied uncertainly, absently lifting a forkful of mixed vegetables to his lips.

"Uh huh," Jim said with his mouth full. "You said that my senses were essentially wild talents, and that every situation could be different, resulting in different responses and experiences. Normal senses react the same way every time, you said, but the Sentinel gifts–"

"Are almost a mutation," Blair finished wonderingly, the words sudden and clear in his mind. "They're unreliable, and the smallest thing can create both unexpected side-effects and consequences – heavy perfume or aftershave, unexpected bright lights, a sudden loud noise, or anything similar."

Jim held his breath, his gaze intent on Blair's face as his partner continued, still in the same abstracted voice, as if he was reading a text. "What works one time may not work the next, or may work differently, and so the partner must always be prepared with alternatives. And disruptions to one sense may in turn affect others. This is especially true of disruptions to smell and taste, since they are the most primitive senses, the earliest to develop and frequently the most powerful as to effect. The mechanism is thus more primal and–" Blair broke off, shaking his head. "Wow."

"Go on," Jim urged softly.

Blair looked up at him, a lost look in his eyes. "I can't. It's like the book slammed shut. I remember what I said, but the rest of it's gone."

"What book was that?"

Blair was silent, and Jim prompted him. "Blair?"

The anthropologist bent his head, his curly hair falling forward to shadow his expression. "My dissertation."

There was a long moment of silence, and then Jim said gently, "I thought you were reading your journals last night."

"I was," Blair said tonelessly. "I haven't looked at my dissertation."

Jim stared at him, uncertain why his friend looked like he was fighting tears. "But that's great, Sandburg! That means that it's coming back–"

"It was back," interrupted Blair. "It's gone now, except for what I said."

"But that's good," Jim said, frowning. "It means your memories are coming back–"

"No!" yelled Blair, standing with such force that his chair crashed behind him. "Don't you understand? I had it! I had it all! For one moment I was there, and now it's gone. Damn it!"

He whirled, his hands clenched at his sides as he marched stiffly to his room, leaving a thoroughly confused Sentinel to stare after him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim watched his partner out of the corner of one eye as they cruised through the run-down neighborhood. Blair had been quiet and withdrawn ever since his outburst the night before, and the Sentinel wasn't at all sure what to do about it. He didn't understand what the anthropologist had been talking about last night, but it had obviously upset him, and the detective shifted in his seat, reining back a sigh with an effort. He had a strong suspicion that nothing he said would help, and that made him grind his teeth. But the only person who could help Blair right now was the student himself.

Ellison took a silent breath and turned his mind to police work. Maybe thinking about the case would get Blair's mind off his problem.

"So where're we going?"

Clearly Blair's thoughts were running in the same direction, and Jim glanced at him approvingly. "There's someone I want to talk to about the murder," he answered, turning down another residential street, both men glancing at the school fronting one side of it. Fields of grass and a stadium beyond the playground indicated another school past a curve, and the faint music of what was probably a marching band reached Blair's ears. "He's a musician of sorts, but he does other things on the side, and I think–" Jim broke off, pulling the car over and stopping it with a jerk.

"Hey!"

Jim didn't answer, his expression focused and intent as he levered the door open and slid out, immediately rounding the car and half-running toward a nearby house.

Blair unhooked his seatbelt and quickly opened the door and scrambled out, running after Jim.

"What did you see?" he murmured as he caught up with the Sentinel.

Jim stopped, holding his hand up to halt the anthropologist, his head tilted in a fashion that Blair already recognized. The student briefly hoped that the children's clatter in the playground across the street wouldn't impede his partner.

Ellison stepped around the corner of the house and lunged.

Blair followed just in time to see the Sentinel pin a man against the wall. The suspect fought furiously, but it was obvious that the detective had the upper hand.

The man's defiant attitude and ragged, dirty clothes suggested nothing more menacing than a bum, but his eyes were slitted and dangerous, and Blair, watching as Jim pacified the stranger, was glad his partner had things under control. This was not a safe man to cross.

"Well, well, Gillespie," Jim said genially, hefting the gun he found in the man's pocket and keeping one hand on his shoulder.

It looked like a friendly move, but Blair saw the strength of the grasp in the clenched fingers, though the stranger showed no sign of pain.

"Fancy meeting you around here. And so close to a school, too."

"Man's got a right to earn a living," snarled Gillespie, standing straight under Jim's hand.

"And just what kind of living were you planning to earn in this neighborhood?" Ellison inquired, smiling. "Now you know the terms of your release as well as I do, Gillespie. Sexual offenders stay away from school grounds, so what're you doing standing right across the street from one?"

"None of your business!"

"Oh, I think it's definitely my business, Gillespie," Jim said evenly, his smile fading. "You see, I have…" His voice faltered, and his face took on an intent, abstracted look.

Blair sucked in a breath as he heard a trumpet sing out, sweet and clear in a solo above the other instruments in the band. Faint as the sound was to him, he knew Jim could hear it clearly, and he stepped closer to the Sentinel, opening his mouth.

He never got the chance.

Gillespie realized Jim's abstraction in the same moment that Blair did, and acted on it, twisting free of the detective's relaxed grip and grabbing the gun. He laughed viciously and raised it, firing as the muzzle came into line with Jim's body.

Blair crashed into the oblivious Sentinel, sending them both to the ground. Fire burned across his shoulder, and he grunted as the impact sent waves of pain throbbing through it.

Gillespie laughed again. "Not bad, little man! But not good enough–"

Jim sideswiped the ex-con with his legs as Gillespie fired again, the bullet going wild, bouncing off a nearby garbage can and burying itself into the tree trunk just beyond Blair, the soft _thunk_ making the anthropologist cringe.

By the time he raised his head it was over, and Jim was sitting atop Gillespie, handcuffing him with grim efficiency. That done, he knelt next to Blair, his face somewhat whiter than usual.

"Are you okay?"

Blair looked up at him, frustrated. "Do I get shot on a regular basis?" he asked through clenched teeth.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Are you sure you don't want to go back to the loft and take the rest of the day off?" Jim asked, worriedly checking his partner's color as they exited the emergency room.

Blair sighed. "Yes, Jim, I'm sure. It's only a graze, after all."

Jim frowned at him. "Even a graze hurts. Did you take the painkillers the doctors gave you?"

Blair shot him an incredulous look. "Put that crap in my body, Jim? Do you know what's in that stuff? Every toxic chemical known to man. And the combinations? What those do to your system is–"

Jim looked at him, and Blair glanced away, his voice dying.

"Okay, Chief," Ellison agreed quietly, halting as they reached the truck. "What's bothering you?"

Blair shrugged, remembering his shoulder too late. "Nothing, man," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm just tired, that's all." He moved to his side of the truck, standing at the door. "Sitting down'll just feel really good, you know? So if we can just get in, I think…"

Jim unlocked his door and swung in, releasing Blair's lock and watching the young man climb in and seat himself, still talking.

"…and anyway, he's off the street, and that's good, so–"

"Sandburg," Jim said, cutting into the chatter. "Talk to me. What's bothering you?"

Blair looked out the window, silent.

"Come on, Blair. We're partners, remember? Tell me."

Blair closed his eyes, then opened them and turned. "That's just it, Jim. We're partners. And I'm not living up to my side of it."

The detective opened his mouth, but Blair rode over his protests before he could voice them.

"I nearly got you killed out there today, man! If it hadn't been for you–" He broke off, shuddering.

"Now hold on a minute," Jim countered firmly. "How do you figure that you nearly got me killed out there today? I was the one who zoned, not you, remember?"

Blair shook his head. "It's my job to break you out of a zone-out, Jim."

"And you did–"

"No!" Blair interrupted forcefully. He sighed. "Look, man, when I saw you'd zoned – and I was only guessing that that was what was happening, mind you, I wasn't sure – I froze. I didn't know what to say, or how to say it. If Gillespie hadn't grabbed the gun, I wouldn't have known what to do." He took a breath, speaking before the Sentinel could. "Jim, I know that there was no time to do it any other way, and I know I did the only thing possible." He paused, then spoke again, the words so low that only Jim could have heard them. "But what happens the next time?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim eyed his partner unobtrusively, watching him push the food around on his plate. The lunch crowd at the diner was sparse in the mid-afternoon, and he was grateful, not sure how much noise he could take. Zoning out always tended to put him on edge for the rest of the day, and this was no exception.

Besides, Blair was hurting and he didn't want him subjected to a lot of stress, either. The student didn't complain, but the signs were clear to the Sentinel – the tense jaw muscles, the stifled hisses of pain, the slight paleness of his face. And Sandburg had a point about how he'd dealt with the zoning, though Jim didn't like to admit it. He trusted Blair implicitly – he couldn't help it. But if Blair didn't trust himself… that could be a problem for both of them.

"Would it help if you talked to Naomi?" he asked, seeing Blair's slight start at the abrupt question.

"About what?" Blair asked curiously after he'd dealt with the surge of pain his movement had produced.

Jim shrugged. "About your memory, or… anything else."

Blair cocked his head at him, his eyes thoughtful. "No."

It was Jim's turn to frown at him. "Why not? The two of you are really close; I'd think you'd want to spend some time with her."

Blair looked at him intently, then shook his head. "No. Thanks, Jim, but I don't need to go running to my mother for help anymore."

"I didn't mean it that way," Jim replied, straightening.

Blair grimaced. "I'm sorry – that was an overreaction. But my relationship with Naomi's never been understood by most of my friends, and since you've obviously met her, I figured that your reactions toward her were about the same as everyone else's."

Jim thought about the woman he'd met, remembering her fierce protectiveness of Blair, which had always resonated with him because he felt that way himself. But she'd been willing to let her son make his own decisions in the end, and Jim had respected that. And he remembered the woman who'd been so quick to play a part in the trap they'd set, and her cool demeanor as they'd pulled it off. He had recognized a lot of Sandburg in her, and respected his partner the more for it.

He shook himself out of the past, meeting Blair's curious gaze with a smile. "No, I don't think so. Naomi's a remarkable woman, and I just wondered if it might help if you talked with her. About anything."

Blair smiled at him, his old, enthusiastic smile, and Jim returned it, glad to see his partner's cheerful outlook restored.

"No," Blair said again, still smiling. "Thanks, Jim, for offering it, but right now I don't want to bring my relationship with Naomi into my relationship with you." His smile faded, serious determination taking its place. "You need me, and that's my focus right now. I don't think talking with Naomi would help."

Jim nodded, warmed by the words.

Blair's lips lifted again. "It's going to be all right. I'll figure a way around it; after all, like you said, the knowledge is still in there, somewhere. It'll come back sometime. Soon."

Jim nodded, relaxing into the truth of the words.

"And besides, man," Blair added, his eyes crinkling mischievously, "I figure my biggest asset is my charming personality, and that hasn't changed."

"Sandburg!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Kane sat dully at his desk, ignored in the buzz of the squad room. Everyone ignored him, and that was how he wanted it. It was what he deserved.

Joel stopped in front of him, waiting until the dark eyes focused on him before sitting down across from him. "So, are you planning on dealing with this any time soon, or are you just gonna sit there and wallow in it?"

Kane blinked at him, jerked out of his haze by the stern words. "Huh?"

Joel shook his head, pushing back his chair. "Maybe I'm wasting my time…"

"No." The word was out before Jack could call it back, and he flushed, dropping his head.

Joel settled back into the chair, and for a long moment there was silence. "So," said the larger man finally. "What're you going to do about it?"

Kane looked at him through his lashes. "What-what do you mean? Sir?"

The unsmiling features lightened very slightly. "Are you going to work your way past this, learn how to be a better cop, or are you just gonna stay in your pit and never climb out?"

Jack's gaze dropped to the table. "I fucked up. Sir."

"Yes, you did," agreed Joel. "Big time. So?"

Kane glanced up. "Sir?"

Joel met his gaze. "I said, so?" When Jack didn't answer, he continued, his voice even. "You think you're the only cop in here who's made a mistake? A big mistake?" He turned in the chair, glancing around the room, his gaze skipping from one seemingly involved officer to another. "Nope, I don't see a man – or woman – here who hasn't done something they'd give anything to go back and change."

He turned back to Kane, pinning him with a glare. "So join the club, and get on with it." He paused. "Or get out."

His heart beating in his throat, Jack watched him push back his chair and stand.

"There's an assignment in Simon's file with your name on it," Joel said, looking down at him. "If you have the guts to claim it."

He turned and left, and the Kane watched him go, swallowing dryly.

Ten minutes later, Joel watched as the young officer made his way uncertainly to Simon's office, raising his hand to knock. He hesitated, then squared his shoulders and rapped, pushing it open at the captain's invitation.

A little ripple of applause ran around the squad room, and Jack glanced back in surprise, tentatively smiling at the thumbs up he received. His gaze lingered on Joel, and the older man nodded at him.

Kane's smile quirked, and he turned to face Simon with renewed confidence, the door closing behind him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair stretched and yawned, rolling over to glance at his clock. Half an hour until they had to get up. He smiled wryly, sighing. Mid-summer, and he still couldn't break himself of waking at the same time his alarm had been set during the semester. Man, that eight o'clock class had been a killer – at least next semester the first class he had to teach was at ten. Thank all the gods for that.

He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and heading toward the bathroom. Jim was probably awake by now anyway, and if he wasn't, well, he should be. He yawned again as he padded down the hallway, noticing the sunlight falling through the windows into the kitchen. On such a beautiful day as this, there was simply no excuse to be in bed.

Nature call dealt with, he trotted back to his room, throwing on some pants and changing his shirt before heading out to make coffee.

"Hmm," he said softly as he opened the freezer, peering at labels. Far in the back he found the bags he was seeking and lifted them out, closing the door and dropping the two on the counter.

"Don't you think it's a little early for all this commotion, Chief?"

Blair grinned at the scowling Sentinel over his shoulder, then turned, hefting the bags. "Hey, man, I figured you'd be willing to wake up and smell the coffee! I'll even make your favorite blend," he added at the lowering frown on Jim's face. "You know, the African Thunder and Mocha mix? That's enough to put hair on your chest. If you need it, of course," he said as he measured scoops of beans out of the two bags into the coffee grinder. "Though I knew this one tribe; they were convinced that white men drank coffee to make them grow–"

Jim's fierce grab spun him around and Blair lost the scoop.

"Hey!" he said indignantly as coffee beans bounced and rolled across the floor. "That stuff's not cheap, you know–"

"Sandburg!" Jim's grip tightened on his shoulders, staring at him. "You remember?"

"Huh?" Blair said blankly, then blinked. "Oh, man," he whispered, paling slightly. "I just woke up and it was there. It was all there!"

The words ended in a gulp as Jim caught him in a crushing bear hug, and for the next few minutes the kitchen was filled with loud whoops and yells, at least until Blair stepped on a bean that rolled under his foot, dumping him to the ground.

Blair looked at the floor and laughed. "Hey, man," he said, choosing a bean and holding it up, "do you think you can tell which kind of coffee this is by scent? I forgot which one I was measuring, and the coffee tastes really strange if the mix is off, you know?"

Jim's laughter cut off the last part of the sentence, and Blair grinned, contentment sweeping through him. It was over, and he was home.

%MCEPASTEBIN%%MCEPASTEBIN%


End file.
